Strong Dreams
Sometimes, when I wake up after a night of dreaming, it seems like the whole world is a different place - like my dreaming has taken the world and shaken it, so everything is at slightly different angles than it was the night before. It's as if by dreaming, I've traveled so far away from yesterday that to remember it seems like a dream itself.
When I wake up in the morning, when my dreams have been vivid and strong, it's like jet lag from coming back from some alternate universe. Remembering the dream is like getting postcards from myself, most of them smudged and waterstained with only a few brief images readable, but even those brief images remind me of the strange places I've been, and what I've done there.
My dreams are not wishywashy fleeting images of everyday life as it could be. My dreams are strong, adventurous tales, full of daring and suspense, mystery and magic. Romance is an almost foreign thing in my dreamland - an exchanged glance, a quick touch of hands before plunging down the rabbit hole to run to Faerie to escape the dawn: this is all the romance my dreams have time for.
Last night I dreamed like this. I woke up, as I will after these ironstrong, silverstrong dreams, with a punch and a vigor and a drive to go seek out the hidden kingdom, find the lost talisman, save the world. To find my bed in a dorm room, rather than laid out in a clearing of velvety dewed grass; to find that the girl near me is my roommate Anna, coughing and sick, instead of an impish, flirtatious, blond half-fae, goading me to race her around the sky; to find that the closest thing to an adventure waiting for me is an empty Brita pitcher...
Anyone can see how such a return to mundanity would be a bit disconcerting.
When I wake up in the morning, when my dreams have been vivid and strong, it's like jet lag from coming back from some alternate universe. Remembering the dream is like getting postcards from myself, most of them smudged and waterstained with only a few brief images readable, but even those brief images remind me of the strange places I've been, and what I've done there.
My dreams are not wishywashy fleeting images of everyday life as it could be. My dreams are strong, adventurous tales, full of daring and suspense, mystery and magic. Romance is an almost foreign thing in my dreamland - an exchanged glance, a quick touch of hands before plunging down the rabbit hole to run to Faerie to escape the dawn: this is all the romance my dreams have time for.
Last night I dreamed like this. I woke up, as I will after these ironstrong, silverstrong dreams, with a punch and a vigor and a drive to go seek out the hidden kingdom, find the lost talisman, save the world. To find my bed in a dorm room, rather than laid out in a clearing of velvety dewed grass; to find that the girl near me is my roommate Anna, coughing and sick, instead of an impish, flirtatious, blond half-fae, goading me to race her around the sky; to find that the closest thing to an adventure waiting for me is an empty Brita pitcher...
Anyone can see how such a return to mundanity would be a bit disconcerting.